


Reverie

by dettiot



Category: Alias (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 20:32:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1111201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dettiot/pseuds/dettiot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sark waits in the Royal Albert Hall for the contact for his next mission.  The contact is not who he expects.  Post-Crossings, pre-After Six.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reverie

No costume, no disguise, has ever been more effective than the mask of his own face.

He is able to control his expression to an extent that reveals only that which he wants to reveal. Usually, this is not much, and it is difficult to surprise him. It is one of the more important skills in his arsenal, allowing him to remain the mysterious Mr. Sark, rather than the late Mr. Sark.

Tonight, wearing a well-tailored tuxedo, he looks no different from any other man in the building. He might attract a disinterested look, due to meaningless details like his height or his hair, but otherwise, he can slip amongst the crowd with little attention. He prefers it this way. He would rather rely on his acting abilities to maintain his cover, than some elaborate, impractical get-up. Most operatives feel safer in their costumes, freer to exercise all their abilities. 

He prefers to work unhampered by friviolity, and his success has proven his method effective. But a good poker face isn't his only talent. He is quick to notice her arrival in the concert hall, from his position in a dim corner of the lobby. Unlike him, her true self is hidden, drowned by a demure gown and a messy updo of auburn ringlets. But her disguise isn't enough to completely blot out Sydney Bristow.

He watches her whenever he has an opportunity, of which he has not had many. Those months he worked at SD-6, he whiled away many a briefing by focusing his attention on the younger Agent Bristow. He made no secret of his observation; not only did it fulfill his needs, but his study seemed to distract her, even fluster her a bit.

Now, he occasionally catches a glimpse of her, out of the corner of his eye, when he is conducting business. It takes a too-great portion of his control, in those situations, to not turn his head, to remember to focus on the mission rather than on Sydney. He is not allowed such time for contemplation when he is in the field.

Sark raises the glass of mediocre red wine, and takes a sip as he watches Agent Bristow walk around the lobby, always careful to keep out of her line of sight. It is unfortunate that all that study of her was a waste of time. Any other person subjected to that level of scrutiny would be predictable to him. Yet Sark has found that Sydney Bristow is not any other person, as much as he is loath to admit the trite thought. Two years of missing memories, with only a patchy explanation, has shaped her into a woman of undefinable character and action. Many times, he has not been sure whether an encounter with her would lead to banter or a knife to his crotch.

He grimaces at the memory as he takes another sip, before noting the dimming lights. Leaving his glass behind, Sark makes his way past cut-glass sconces and regal portraits to the stage left box. During tonight's concert, his contact would meet with him and discuss his next assignment. After their failure to take the defector in North Korea, he is sure he will have to do some undesirable tasks as penance for that mission's outcome. It is not a pleasing thought, especially when he lets himself think of his funds financing an organization he sees as increasingly ineffectual, to the point of incompetance.

One might say that his standards are too high. He would reply that after working with both Arvin Sloane and Irina Derevko, his standards were for merely average performance. After all, one does not have a chance to work in two different top-class syndicates, and live to tell the tale. Sark realizes that the Covenant is not such an organization.

He slips into the box just as the first notes of music are played. He lets his eyes drift over the crowd as he takes in the Debussy piece. Not his favorite composer, but infinitely preferable to the other venue suggested for tonight's meeting: Andrew Lloyd Webber's latest show.

Shuddering at the thought of such overdone banality, Sark finishes his surveillance and sits back in his chair, awaiting his contact. When he hears the curtain being drawn aside, and someone quietly slipping into the chair behind his, he remains facing towards the stage. The piece ends, and under the cover of applause, he states, "The Royal Albert is much preferred to our last meeting place. Surprising choice, as you didn't strike me as someone who appreciated anything with a cultural heritage."

"I'm sure you'd say that's my loss, being that Americans barely have a cultural heritage."

At the sound of her voice, he manages not to stiffen or present any physical sign of his surprise. Yet it is not easy to remain facing forward.

"Why, Agent Bristow. This is an interesting development. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"

He can almost feel the glare she is directing at the back of his head. "Well, 'Agent Hallier', the pleasure is definitely yours."

"I hope that isn't your way of saying you're here to apprehend me on the only charge the CIA can get to stick: impersonating a federal officer," he says dryly, crossing his arms across his chest but leaning further back in his chair. The second piece had begun, and he speaks as loudly as needed to be heard over the music.

"It's certainly being added to everything we have on you, but no, I'm not here to arrest you. I'm here to hire you."

This time, he is unable to prevent himself from twisting around in his seat to look at her, even though he knows that was what she wanted. To shock him, to gain the upper hand, if even for a moment. She is gazing at him, her expression equal parts disheartened resignation and bitter hope. She continues speaking, as if her offer isn't out of the ordinary.

"You are probably the only person who can get me the information I need from the Covenant. While I don't trust you, I know you will deliver if paid well enough. I'm in a position to do so, and I want results."

"You want answers that you already have, but do not want to accept," he says. "You know what you underwent during your missing years. What was done to you, and what you did. This is nothing more than a fool's errand."

She raises her chin defiantly. "And you're no fool, is that what I'm supposed to think? Wrong, Sark."

He shrugged, the surprise he had felt long gone. "Whatever you think, I am not in a position to accept your offer. Your recent interference did not strengthen my standing within the Covenant, and consequently I am not looking for outside commissions."

"The Covenant's keeping you on a short leash, I see," she remarked caustically. "Have to do that with a dog that's not to be trusted, one that isn't dependable."

Her words are reminiscient of another conversation, on a bluff overlooking the dry California landscape. He didn't care for them then, and he certainly doesn't now.

"Better to be kept close, than allowed enough slack to strangle yourself," he said lightly, but turning to look at her, his face schooled into a cold, impassive mask.

It must have been enough to convince her, because she sat back in her chair and sighed once, deeply. Her sigh made him take a good look at her, and see the dark circles under her eyes, the sallowness of her skin. He found himself asking the question he'd considered posing to her before, especially in the time since her reappearance. "Why do you even bother?"

She shot him a quizzical look, and he continued. "You continue to wear the masks that the CIA wants you to wear. You pretend to be the implacable, dedicated agent, yet you're barely able to function. You are on the same road as your father, and despite his legendary skills as an agent, I find it unlikely you wanted to emulate him as a person. So why do you bother working within the regulations? If you chose to step outside the boundaries, you could have all the answers you needed." He smirked a bit at her. "You're doing it now, although you've probably justified your behavior in some way. Pity that it got you nothing."

"Shut up," she hissed, and he felt the pressure of her gun in his right side, concealed from the audience by the wall of the box. "You're one to talk. If you're in such a shaky position, why don't you switch sides? You've done it before. Could sell your soul to the CIA, be a big man, respected for your knowledge. And you could destroy the organization that cheated you out of $800 million dollars. Why haven't you abandoned ship, you rat?"

"Because, like you, I find it more logical to work within the rules, for the time being. Unlike you, however," he said, turning towards her and ignoring the weapon still pressing against his ribs, "I know when to cut my losses and run. You don't know that yet."

He hopes this is enough to make her storm off, full of fire and indignation. At the very least, he hopes it's enough to make her leave, for this conversation annoys him. Perhaps because until she countered his suggestion, he had not considered such a course of action. Yet now that her words had given form to his thoughts, he wants to consider her proposal.

Sark knows it's not to be. It is no different from the daydreams that people have, where they imagine leading the kind of life he lives. But such reveries are too dangerous for him. Knowing this, he is still teased by the idea of using her lack of focus to encourage a shift in her morality. He has said before that they were destined to work together, and he still believes that. He has met few people who have as much talent as Sydney, and the thought of them as allies is certainly attractive. Too attractive, so he pushes the seductive images away.

He rises, keeping his expression cool. "Agent Bristow, your offer, while diverting, is not feasible for me to take at the present time. Good evening." He keeps his eyes on her for a moment, and sees the small nod she gives him. And with that, he leaves the box, and slips away from the concert hall.

Two streets away, his car is waiting for him, and he slips behind the wheel, welcoming the familiar feel of the Mercedes convertible. As he drives away, though, he wonders just what cracks will be visible on the surface the next time he encounters her. He doubts her disguises will be able to hide them; they are too deep, too fresh, to be covered over easily. And he fears that he will soon hear that Sydney Bristow is no more.

But then, he's been wrong before when it comes to her.

End.


End file.
